Reverse
by Chatte D'Ange
Summary: AU. Samantha Witwicky is a little geeky, but all in all a fairly normal girl. Now she's scared out of her wits by something she doesn't know how to explain.
1. The Worst Night of My Life

I know I'm totally insane. I have a research paper due at 11 a.m. tomorrow that I haven't even started. I have to get my voicemail for my phone set up. I need to run to the store to buy some stuff that I need for an assignment tomorrow. That's not even counting all the other homework that I have tonight, not to mention my chores. But I have to get this off my chest before I explode.

Okay, some background info. My mom's a fashion designer for a relatively small firm, and my dad is a dentist. Both of them are obsessed with the yard. Our dog, Mojo (where Mom came up with that name I will never know), is on pain killers for his broken leg that he acquired when Dad heard him barking in the middle of the night and went to check on him, only to trip over the sumo-sized bowl that Mojo had somehow managed to push into the middle of the floor and land on Mojo himself (who happens to be a Chihuahua). I, of course, got stuck with the task of caring for Mojo, even though he's Mom's dog and Dad's the one that landed on him. I even told them that I had a huge paper coming up, but no, I still had to deal with Mojo. Okay, enough with family.

I bought this car earlier this week, an old, beat-up Camaro. Not something you see every day on the lot of a snake-oil car dealer, but it's not that horribly uncommon. You're thinking, okay, so the chick bought a car. Whoop-de-do. That's not the end of it, though. See, here's what happened. Earlier tonight, I was reading over my chemistry pre-lab stuff when I heard an engine start. Now, most people in my neighborhood are not going to drive off at eight at night, so I had to admit, I was curious (and searching for any reason at all for a break from chemistry). I went over to my window and saw not one of my neighbors' cars moving, but MY car.

_So you called the police, right?_

Wrong. I ran downstairs, got on my bike, and followed the thing, screaming at the carjacker. Stupid, huh? That was not the end of my stupidity for the night, oh, no. Not by a long shot.

I followed my car to some old abandoned place on the edge of the slum/ghetto district. The place looked like no one had been there for a decade and then some. The fence was rusted out, the parking lot cracked and overrun with weeds and grass. Retaining some common sense in spite of my stupefying anger, I didn't actually follow the carjacker in. Instead, I hopped off my bike several hundred yards behind my Camaro and inched up through some four-foot-high weeds to where I had a good view of my car from behind some wild shrubbery. Only then did I get a really good look at the interior. _There was no one inside._

My mouth dropped open, and I just froze right where I was, in a crouch. My shocks were not over for the night, however, as my car played one final trump card: it changed. I watched in some unprecedented combination of awe, shock, fear, and horror as my Camaro shifted its form and became a humanoid, bipedal, robot thing. It looked at its . . . hand? . . . and I saw that there was some kind of box-looking thing in it. Before I could get a really good look, though, a light shot up from the box-thing, and I gasped. The Camaro snapped its head in my direction, and I freaked. I crawled, shimmied, and stumbled my way back through the weeds to my bike, leaped on, and rode off like the devil himself was after me.

I didn't stop to think where I should go. I just headed straight home, shot up the stairs, and dove into my bed, hiding under the blankets.

After a while, when no giant metal hands had crashed through my window or pounded a hole in my roof, I climbed gingerly out from under my covers, senses on high alert. After I had checked the premises and made sure all was quiet, I went back upstairs and sat down at my desk. I tried to focus on my homework, I really did, but I couldn't. Not after what I had just seen. So I gave up on homework, and started writing.

And here I am still, at 11 p.m.—

The sound of a car, rolling ever so softly into the driveway, makes me freeze in terror. I drop down under my desk, shaking so hard I'm sure I'm producing enough friction to heat Siberia. My cell phone rings.

* * *

How's that for a first chapter? Let me know! Review, please!

KitKat


	2. No Way Out

I just went to a local talent show and saw BATMAN THE MUSICAL! It was stinking HILARIOUS! I wish you all could have seen it. It didn't even make fun of the show/comic. There were people recording it, so maybe someone will put it on YouTube. Here's hoping!

"_Moviespeak"_

"_**Songspeak"**_

"**Cybertronian"**

Disclaimer (for last chapter, too): I do not own Transformers. I never will. Any original characters/ideas are mine. Ask before you use them, please.

* * *

"_Step away from the phone, and no one gets hurt!"_ A line from a long forgotten B movie blares from the speakers of the Camaro in the front drive as I stealthily (or so I think) reach for the phone ringing its antenna off on top of my desk.

I freeze for a moment, then inch my hand ever so slowly toward the insistently ringing device. Maybe I can get help from whoever's calling.

"_Trust me, babe, it's for your own good."_

"Give me one good reason why I should trust a freak car that's basically stalking me," I mutter. I'm not expecting a reply, so I jump when one comes, hitting my head on the top of my desk and dropping the cell, which I had picked up.

"_The fate of the world is a stake here!"_

"Psh." Great. A deluded, talking car. That's the exact last thing I need right now. Somehow, though, I don't think the Camaro will hurt me. Maybe it's less scary now that I know I can communicate with it.

I look at the caller ID on the phone, which has started ringing for the third time since I started arguing with my car. It's my friend Stephanie's number. I stand up and stick my head out of my screenless window.

"Relax, Camaro-man. I don't think my best friend has it in for the entire planet."

"_Don't do it, Juliet!" _I chuckle as I answer my phone. That line was from a B movie my aunt starred in, in which a modern-day guy goes back in time and ends up in the Shakespearean play. He ends up falling in love with Juliet . . .

A click on the other end of the line jerks me from my thoughts and alerts me to my mistake. Stephanie _never_ does crank calls, and she never just randomly hangs up without at least saying "Hi-MomsaysIhavetogetbacktowork-bye!" or something like that. Never.

Okay, now I'm seriously freaked out.

"_Get you behiney down those staihs before they get you!"_

I'd already questioned my Camaro's wisdom once tonight, and I don't like where the results are going. I rip open my door and pelt down the stairs, not worrying about my parents or anything else. I only stop twice—once to get my emergency bag (that has about everything I'd ever need for any situation in it) and once to get my keys from the hook.

I slam open the front door, hoping my parents will think we're being robbed and make a mad dash across the street to call the police from there. They're to smart to stay and fight when it's just a couple of knickknacks at stake.

I tear down the driveway like a bat out of hell. My Camaro already has its driver's side door popped open and honks its horn insistently as it sees me coming. I dive in, dumping my bag on the other seat as my seatbelt takes care of itself.

We squeal out of that driveway like the devil himself is after us, the Camaro burning rubber as he speeds down the street.

We're out in the middle of the country when my Camaro suddenly hits the brakes, throwing me forward into the steering wheel in spite of my belt. The window shoots down, and the horn honks frantically. As I try to figure out my Camaro's signals, I look down at my hands. I'm still carrying my cell phone. It has GPS. Oh. Crud.

I chuck that thing out the window and into the field like I've just figured out I have a bomb in my hands. The Camaro peels out on the pavement, trying to put as much distance between us and that phone as possible.

Just as I'm about to let out a sigh of relief, we pass a police car. It, naturally, starts shrieking its sirens and takes off after us. My Camaro speeds up, and just as I'm about to yell at him to pull over so I can talk to the cop and sort this out, you stupid car, I turn around to look at the cop car. There's no one inside. "Go, _go, GO!"_

We lead the cop car on a merry chase through the countryside, taking every back road and random gravel path known to man, and then some. The cop car is obviously starting to tire of our little cat and mouse game, because panels in its sides open, and it starts shooting missiles at us. Yes, missiles. We are so dead.

My Camaro starts to slow, sputtering, like he can't figure out whether to speed up or slow down. I turn around and see exactly why he's having a fit: we're heading back towards town. He doesn't want to involve anyone else in this, and in the city were a whole lot more likely to cause injuries. A nasty thought hits me. What if the cop car decides to use the people in town as hostages or something, to lure us out?

We don't really have much of a choice, though, because there are no more roads around and the ditches on either side of us are too deep to risk escaping through a cornfield. We'd get stuck, and end up sitting ducks for the bloodthirsty pseudocop. (Insert whatever cussword you'd like here.) So we plow on.

It turns out we're back in the slum side of town, near the place where this whole mess had really started.

"_Don't worry, babe. I'll get us out of this."_

I can't help but quirk a small smile at the cockiness in the voice of the actor he chose to quote. "I hope so."

We zip around a corner, only to find ourselves face to face with a brick wall. My door pops open, and he dumps me and my bag on the floor of the alleyway. Before I can protest, our antagonist charges around the corner, in a much changed form from the one I first saw him in. This one is bipedal, slightly humanoid, and uglier than a shark's behind. My Camaro wastes no time in meeting the onslaught, turning sideways at the last moment and effectively tripping the ugly bot. He lands smack on his face (if you can call it that).

I see my friend shift for a second time, only this time I get a very clear view. The Camaro has the same basic form as the other bot, but he's a good bit smaller (and much better looking). I pray (not for the first time that night—not by a long shot) that his size gives him an agility edge instead of hindering him

The pseudocop gets to his feet and instantly charges the Camaro again. My friend is apparently not hindered by his size in the strength department, because he meets the pseudocop head on, and manages to hold him off. As the two wrestle, I stash my bag and look for a place to hide. As much as I want to help, I know the best I could manage would be a couple of badly timed insults before I got squashed.

I hear something odd from the direction of the fight, but I ignore it. This turns out to be even more stupid than answering my phone. Out of nowhere, something heavy and metal with several sharp ends lands on my back and starts clawing. I pull off my jacket as fast as I can and sling it, new attachment and all, by the sleeves into the wall opposite the door I found. I dash inside and slam the door shut.

I can hear whatever it was clawing at the door, and I pray for a weapon. Backing up, I trip over something. Upon closer examination, it turns out to be a sledgehammer, and a big one at that. I really shouldn't have been able to lift it, but I leave the pondering for another time. The little nasty that ripped up my back has busted through the door.

I swing my hammer up and around, catching the spazoid little bot on the shoulder. It hesitates, clearly shocked, then lunges at me. I swing my hammer again, this time sending the creepy little skeletal thing flying across the warehouse room and into a stack of crates. It gets up, but it's more cautious this time. It sends a barrage of shuriken-like disks at me, tearing up my jeans and my already bloody T-shirt.

Fine. If it can play the distance game, so can I. I throw my hammer like a shot put, praying that it hits something vital. My prayers are answered as the hammer slams into the thing's head, pounding it into the wall of the warehouse. Not waiting for it to recover and straighten out its flattened head like some demented cartoon (which, after tonight, I wouldn't have been surprised if it did), I dash over and pick up the hammer, bashing the thing until I'm pretty sure it won't get up any time soon.

My adrenalin spent, I drop the hammer—now to heavy for me—and sink to my knees. Silence registers where there had once been battle sounds, and I start to worry. Cautiously, I get up and make my way over the tools and crate parts littering the floor of the warehouse to the door. I peek outside, and let out the breath I didn't know I had been holding.

I bound down the single step and over to my Camaro friend, who's standing in front of a cop car that has had a wrecking ball slammed on its roof, effectively squashing it. I hug his leg, and he look down at me.

"Oh my gosh, I can't believe it! I'm so glad you're okay! That guy's like twice your size!"

He does a cocky little dance, blaring out a line of music. _"Check the rep, yep! Second to none!"_

I laugh. "You're full of it." My mood sobers as I remember earlier in the night. "Hey, um, I think I owe you an apology." I reach my hand behind my head in a pretty universal gesture of chagrin. "I should have listened to you earlier. We probably wouldn't have had to deal with all this if I had."

"_It's okay, Julie-babe. You just gotta do the best you can with what you know, and you're not always going to know the right thing." _It's my aunt's movie again. I give a half-smile.

"You're right. I still feel bad, though."

"_**Say that you're not afraid, you're just fine**_

_**Got it all figured out this time**_

_**And all of the plans you made will work out**_

_**Deep inside you have your doubts**_

_**But you're clinging to your pride**_

_**And you just don't know you're free to let it go**_

'_**Cause even when it rains outside there is light**_

_**Even when you cry all night, you're alright**_

_**Even when you lose your way you'll get through**_

_**There is someone watching over you"**_

His eyes twinkle, and the only reply that's needed is the tear running down my cheek.

There are two someones watching over me, both of whom most people wouldn't believe existed.

* * *

I'm particularly proud this chapter, because I stink at writing action scenes.

I love the ending.

R&R, s'il vous plait! Constructive criticism is much welcomed, but no flamers. Either your entry will be deleted, or I will gladly send my flaming team after you.

Oh, yeah. The Juliet movie I made up, but I do not own "Someone Watching Over You" (the song Bee played for Sam). If you can't find any of the movie lines on the 'Net, I probably made those up, too.

Random fact: grammar check doesn't know jack squat about grammar. Just thought you might want to know.


	3. Welcome to Life on Planet Earth

I need to vent. Badly. So I apologize ahead of time if anything's screwy. Key for songspeak/moviespeak is in ch. 2. Radiospeak is the same as songspeak but not in stanzas.

I refuse to repeat the disclaimer. Read it in ch. 2.

* * *

I grind my teeth in frustration as I listen to Stephanie poor her heart out. I want so badly to meddle in this situation, but I know that anything I try is going to mess it up even more. Steph finishes, and makes some lame excuse about a project I know she finished a week ago. I don't call her on it, because I understand. Sometimes venting just isn't enough, and you need to just be alone. 

I trudge dejectedly back to my Camaro, climbing in through the already-open door. I don't even chide him about blowing his cover and freaking people out.

"_What gives with the long face, Jules?"_ He's taken to quoting out of my aunt's movie a lot, especially since I told him that she played Juliet. I've heard about a third of that movie come through my Camaro's speakers since last night.

"It's my friend Stephanie. She's got a really bad crush on this guy named Tim. Heck, at this point I honestly think it's past crush and on to in love. He, however, seems too dense to notice. She's hurting really bad right now because somehow the JV cheerleaders got ahold of that information and have been making passes at him and flirting with him all day."

He revs his engine angrily. He's taken a liking to Steph from what he knows about her through me.

"And that's not the half of it. Steph doesn't know, but at lunch I saw Tim sitting there mooning at our other best friend Mica. Mica thinks he's a weirdo, and wouldn't touch him with a ten foot pole if she did like him because of Steph, but if you add this to other stuff I've seen—like him going out of his way to catch up to Mica and trying to put his arm around her a couple of times—then you have a pretty solid case of him having a crush on Mica. I really want to do something, but everything that comes to mind is guaranteed to screw things up even worse.

"Add to that an out of the blue math project due two days from now, two 5000 word essays, another research paper on the life cycle of the slug that I haven't even started due Thursday, and the fact that I'm developing a crush on Michael Banes (who happens to be dating a JV cheerleader who harbors a bitter hatred toward me for some reason that I have yet to figure out), and it's been one heck of a bad day."

"**_And I say to you, let go of your problems. Give them to God. There is a reason for all those clichés like 'Let go and let God' and 'Quit trying and _trust_.'" _**The radio evangelist's voice filled the cabin of the Camaro, now on the road back to my home.

"Yeah, I know, but it's still hard."

"_**Lean on me when you're not strong**_

_**I'll give you strength to help you carry on . . ."**_

I chuckle. "You just don't give up, do you? Thanks." My eyes widen as I realize something, and I hit myself on the forehead with the heel of my palm.

"Hey, I never asked your name, did I?"

"The Flight of the Bumblebee" dances through the air.

"Bumblebee, huh?"

Applause follows my query. "Cool."

* * *

Okay, that ended up way short and rather fluffy (I assume that's the right word), but I needed to get it out of my system, and it adds some interesting places I could take this story. 

I hope you enjoyed it. Review, please!


	4. Famous Last Words

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. Samantha is mine.

* * *

Bee greets me with a merry chirp as I exit my house with my overloaded bookbag. I grin. "You seem happy today. What's up?" 

"_C'mon, lemme introduce you to my folks!"_

"Schnap! There's more of you guys? And they're coming here?"

Bee whirrs an affirmative.

"Sweet."

Bee pops his door for me as I head around to the driver's side. I get in, and we head into town, Bee blaring alt rock as loud as I'll let him with me singing along at the top of my lungs.

My mood quickly sours as we pull into the school parking lot. Michael is there, with Jada, his preppy, stick-insect, cheerleader girlfriend. I grimace at them. I can see her thong through (and over) her white hiphuggers, and the only way she's getting away with that shirt is because she's got nothing to show even _with_ a push-up plunge bra.

Bee's radio suddenly changes stations, blasting out a song that I wouldn't have dreamed of playing at them, no matter how much I wanted to.

"_**Hey hey, you you  
I don't like your girlfriend  
No way, no way  
I think you need a new one  
Hey hey, you you  
I could be your girlfriend  
Hey hey, you you  
I know that you like me  
No way, no way  
I know it's not a secret  
Hey hey, you you  
I want to be your girlfriend**_

_**Oh  
In a second you'll be wrapped around my finger  
'Cause I can, 'cause I can do it better  
There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in?**__**  
She's so stupid, what the heck were you thinkin'?"**_

I crack up laughing, thankful that I have a friend like Bee. He even edited the song for me somehow. At this point, I couldn't even care less what either one of them thinks.

8888888

I walk into English class in a much better mood than I walked out of school yesterday. Somehow, Bee always manages to put me in a good mood.

I walk out of English in an even better mood. Guess what I got on my English paper? An A-, that's what. I didn't even start on the thing until one in the morning on the day it was due. I wrote it on the value of friendship through history, thanks to the inspiration from Bee. I pulled an all-nighter with that one. Bee stayed up with me, letting me sit in him and playing music loud enough to keep me awake, but not so loud as to wake anyone up.

My day sails smoothly along until lunch time. I sit down at a table with my lunchbox. The cafeteria normally has decent food, but Wednesday is the day that the JV cheerleaders get to leave early for practice, and of course my lunch period is when they "eat." I look at the line and get a good whiff of what they're serving today. Meatloaf. I snigger. The cheerleading coach is making one of her random lunch supervising visits, so they actually have to eat that stuff. I almost feel sorry for them, because the one food that our cooks do not know how to make in a proper American style is meatloaf. I mean, what normal person puts chunks of lettuce (iceberg!) in their meatloaf?

I don't know whether it's in revenge for the song Bee played at Jada or what, but they choose my table to sit at. From the minute they sit down, they tear into me like lions tearing into a gazelle. They criticize everything from my hair down to the brand of jelly I'm eating on my PBJ. I finally snap.

"Anyone who can recognize different brands of jelly needs to get a life. Seriously, are you so lame that you guys have nothing better than to dissect the sandwich of an innocent bystander? _Sheesh._ I hate to think what your lives must be like if you're that bored."

Jada and her flunkies sneered.

My day went downhill from there.

8888888

I trudged out to Bee on the verge of tears. Not only did I get sent to the office and receive a detention for yelling at the airhead brigade, I also got slapped with a history paper and a chem lab write-up. Both are due tomorrow, and I saw Jada making out with Michael on the way out.

Bee pops his door for me again, and I barely even notice. I slump into my seat and sigh.

"Life sucks, Bee."

He plays "Bring on the Rain," and I start to cry. "You ever have days were you just want to curl up and die?"

Bee gives me his affirmative whirr, and switches into Barlow Girl's "Never Alone."

"_**I cried out with no reply**_

_**And I can't feel You by my side so**_

_**I'll hold tight to what I know**_

_**You're here, and I'm never alone"**_

"Thanks, Bee. You're right again. Hey, can I really meet your folks?"

Bee chirps happily and does 85 all the way home. For once, there's not a cop in sight.

8888888

Bee chirps at me through the window. I turn so fast that I pull something in my neck. Sure enough, there's Bee's face in my window.

"What the heck are you doing? Do you want to blow your cover?" I push the words through gritted teeth.

Bee gestures behind him. I lean out the window to see what he's pointing at, and I nearly fall out. A large, flickering light fills the cloudy sky. Bumblebee gestures for me to come downstairs.

I grab my emergency bag again on the way down. This time, I _really_ have the feeling I'm going to need it.

* * *

All I'm gonna say is the next chapter should be very interesting. 


	5. No Time Left

Yay! I got a reprieve on my paper! To celebrate, I'm updating _before_ I do my homework instead of after. I already updated _Why Not Me?_, so now it's time for this one. _Slingers_ (my Spider-Man fic) is currently hiatus due to massive writer's block and overwhelming _lack _of response. I know where I want it to go; I just don't know how to get there. (Maybe if one or two of you who are feeling particularly benevolent tonight will go and read it and spark an idea from your reviews . . .)

Anyway . . .

No, Bumblebee is not a girl (I'm toying with the idea for another of the TFs, though, and would appreciate input as to which one it should be), and yes, you can borrow the gender bender idea. Be my guest. Just PM me with your story title, because I want to read it and see where you're going.

Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers, and I probably never will. I'm over it now, because I can write all the stories about it that I want, and I don't even have to tell people my real name or sign in blood to do it.

* * *

The last place I expected to end up was on the other side of a forest over looking a canyon with five giant alien robots looking down at me, but that's where I am now. Let me tell you, watching them all transform was quite the experience—very cool, and making me question my own sanity at the same time. 

Anyhoo, I'm nowhere near recovered from that experience when the biggest one kneels down and lowers his head till he's eye level with me.

"My name is Optimus Prime. We are from the planet Cybertron . . ." He continues with a story about a life-giving force called the Allspark, and an evil Transformer (closest thing to what these guys are called) named Megatron who wanted to get control of it and take over the universe, so they sent it hurtling into space, hoping that Megatron would think it lost to eternity. There was one problem with that plan: every thousand years or so, the Allspark sent out a signal. Megatron picked up on it, and the good guys and bad guys alike took off like there was no tomorrow to look for it.

Which is kind of a funny wording, because if Megatron gets it, there _will_ be no tomorrow for humankind.

"Wait, wait, hold the everloving phone. You mean that he's gonna wipe out every organic race he comes in contact with if he gets that Allspark thing?"

"Yes."

"Dang. Okay, that just means that we have to get it before him. Any ideas?"

"That is where you come in, Samantha Ariel Witwicky. Do you remember the glasses you mentioned on you website?"

"Well, yeah, but what do they have to do with anything?"

"They have Cybertronian glyphs printed on them. Megatron crash landed on this planet somewhere around 150 years ago, and your great-great-grandfather found him."

"So _that's_ where all that stuff about a giant ice-man came from! He wasn't crazy after all!"

"No. When he found Megatron, he somehow activated his navigation system, which in turn printed the coordinates of the Allspark on his glasses. We _must_ get them before Megatron's agents do."

"So that's why—Oh, schnap! Bee and me, we already had to ditch one of those guys!" My hands fly to the sides of my head, and my voice rises in panic with each word. "Crud! My parents! We gotta warn them! If Megatron's nasties know who I am, they definitely know where I live!"

"_**Nevah worry, nevah feah,**_

_**I got yo' back, the B-man's here!"**_

Bumblebee blasts a rap tune of unknown origins as he again becomes my familiar old Camaro.

I give Bee a weak grin, and dig through my pack. I finally find what I'm looking for: an old glasses case, with my great-great-grandfather's glasses inside. "Here. Just in case something happens to me between now and then. I don't want those . . . _Decepticon_ jerks getting ahold of them."

They all look at me with sparkling, slightly startled optics. (Eyes just doesn't sound right with these guys.)

"What? It was the best original derogatory term I could come up with on short notice without cussing, and I don't cuss. I prefer a more sophisticated vocabulary," I add with a mock-haughty sniff.

Optimus sticks the glasses somewhere, and turns to his troops. I get into Bumblebee as I listen to the short sonic bursts coming from the other bots. It sounds like they're talking, but it's too fast for me to even pick up a tone.

Bee revs his engine and is about to drive off when Optimus turns back to us. "We will come, too. We all have the feeling we will be needed."

8888888

The drive back to my house from the canyon is a long one (half an hour is far too long for anyone when their family could be in danger), and I start fidgeting about two minutes through.

"So, now dat you gave a name ta da other guys, you got one fo' us?" The voice of the silver Pontiac Solstice coming through Bumblebee's speakers causes me to jump no less than six inches off my seat.

"Let's see, nothing too intimidating. Robots that turn into cars. And trucks. And are autonomous. The usual "Robo-something" doesn't really fit, so suffix? Autobots!"

"Short and sweet, huh? Ah like it. Da name's Jazz. Well, da closest thing to it, anyway. Da Topkick is Ironhide, and da Fire and Rescue Hummer guy is Ratchet."

"Cool."

Bee, Jazz, and I talk the rest of the trip, with the rest joining in a little later in the journey. Even Ironhide puts in his two bits, and he doesn't really strike me as the talkative type.

When we get close to my house, Bee slows to a crawl.

"What is it?"

Jazz whispers over the "James Bond" music playing softly on Bee's radio. "Some gov'ment agent-lookin' guys ah snoopin' 'round yo' pad."

"Cru-hud," I wail. "Someone must have seen Bee when he was out driving without me that one time! Of course, the fact that I was yelling probably didn't help. I guarantee you _some _branch of the government knows about my grandfather finding Megatron. They wouldn't take a car driving around on its own as lightly as the local cops! Me and my car not being at home is _so_ not going to help this situation."

We all stop dead in our tracks as we try to figure out what to do next. I notice a curtain flicking out of the corner of my eye, but quickly forget it as I desperately try to think of a way to rescue my parents.

* * *

Review, please! 


	6. A Very Bad Move

I know it's been forever since anyone has heard from me on here, and for that I apologize. Those of you who have read _Why Not Me _will know that my dad's been sick since September 07. Well, it's gotten worse. Much worse. They still don't know very much of what's wrong, and he's currently operating at the level of a little kid. Between school, homework, and helping Mom, I haven't had time to _think _about posting, much less write something to post. I had version one of this written up months ago, but then I lost my pda, which is where I stored it. I just finished this draft a few minutes ago, because I needed to write. Just saying, don't expect regular updates. I'll try, but don't expect it at all.

* * *

"Guys, this is pointless." The discussion stops as the Transformers all "turn" their attention towards me. "The only way we can get my parents out of this is if I show up with my _normal_ looking car in tow. Maybe I can persuade them that there was a huge misunderstanding. The last thing that needs to happen is something that might blow your cover." I pat Bee's dash. "Let's go, Bee."

Before anyone can protest and point out the shear stupidity of this idea, especially when we have no idea what we're dealing with, we take off down the street and park as close to my house as possible, as the agent types have filled the driveway with their ugly black Hummer-looking cars. Faster than you can say "Bob's your uncle," the black-clad agents are swarming around us, their freaky machines going haywire, clicking and screeching like Geiger counters on Ephedra.

I try my best to put on a jocular front. "What's all the commotion? And what're those machine things? If it's some kind of new drug detector, then it's back to the drawing board."

Apparently they agree that my sore attempt at a joke is an epic fail, because no one laughs. In fact, they more or less ignore me. One of them that reminds me of a James Bond bad guy turns to another whose look practically screams "GEEK!" and says, "What do you think?"

"I think—direct contact."

I thank God profusely that Mom made me act in every play in the community theater that she could finagle me a part in as I fix the pair of agents with a look that implies they've just grown second heads and ask, "Direct contact with what? A radioactive mushroom?"

The Bond bad guy doesn't answer as he grabs my arm and manhandles me to the nearest Hummer-thing, though he does give me a sneer that says he _knows _I'm withholding information.

I hear a familiar high-pitched voice as I'm fighting my captor, and I see the strangest thing I've seen yet, giant alien robots and all. Jada, in a hotel maid's outfit, her tear-streaked dirty face scrunched up as she screams at the top of her cheerleader-grade lungs in the ear of the crony currently hauling her bodily towards the same car I'm being dragged into. She gives the guy a good swift kick in the shin as he shoves her through the door opposite the one the evil Bond guy is attempting to muscle me into.

I barely have time to wonder why Jada's dressed like she is or why she's even here in the first place before I hear another shriek. Two more guys are hauling my parents and a muzzled Mojo out of the house. Said Bond dude takes advantage of my distraction and gives me a good shove, knocking me into the vehicle behind me.

When we're "secured" in the car (along with the nerd and several of their rather burly friends), the Bond nasty introduces himself as "Agent Simmons, Sector Seven", then cuts right to the chase. "What do you know about aliens?"

I snort as I catch a glance of Bumblebee in the rearview mirror out of the corner of my eye. Poor guy has to be freaking. Jada says nothing, so I switch into cynical teenager mode and scoff, "Why, the government having issues with little green men again? Or are you really a Yeerk trying to figure out whether I'm working with the Andalites?"

Simmons looks at his nerd partner, who shakes his head. Just then, his cell phone shrieks in an obnoxiously pitched tone. He answers and his eyes go wide, then he turns on me, grinning like a banshee. "You might _not_ know anything, but you'll make excellent leverage just the same."

8888888

I sit and glare at Simmons as the freak version of a black Hummer carries us who knows where. Every time he looks at me and does his holier-than-thou sneer, I either sneer right back or stick my tongue out at him. Jada looks like she can't decide whether she should cry or deck him, which is a very odd look for her, let me tell you. The minutes inch painfully by until nerd-man's machine starts going bonkers again—just before a very large metal foot squashes the front of the car.

The top of said vehicle is promptly removed, and a voice that feels like summer thunder says, "Taking the girls was a _very_ bad move." The statement's tone implies grave consequences for those messing with the speaker.

"Get out of the vehicle. Now." We all, of course, comply.

I grin like a lunatic as Optimus stares Simmons down, and said agent stutters like a n00b at his very first anime con who's just caught sight of a crossdresser in a schoolgirl uniform. I notice that Jada isn't much better off and decide to take pity on her. "Relax," I whisper, "he's a friend."

"Huh?"

"I'll explain later."

Multiple guns slide from their holsters, most just held at the ready, a few pointed at Optimus—and one pointed at me. Simmons has apparently recovered enough to remember that he's using me for "leverage". Jada makes a move to punch his lights out, but he's too quick for her, and he's got me in a choke hold before her fist covers half the distance.

A dark expression crosses Optimus' features as he calls, "Autobots, relieve them of their weapons."

The rest of my friends melt from the shadows like trained ninjas, activating some sort of magnetic things in their palms and sucking away the agents' weapons as effectively as any high-powered vacuum. Simmons loses his grip on me when he tries to hold on to his gun, and Jada promptly knocks him for a loop. I give Optimus a huge grin for using my nickname for them, and he gives me a conspiratorial wink, like a big brother or an uncle covering for his sister/niece.

I look back at the others, and snigger when I spot Bee glaring daggers at him. Simmons has noticed as well, and looks like he's trying his darnedest not to wet himself. Yeah, that's right, you cad, let's see how tough you are when you have a fifteen foot tall robot breathing down your neck. Jerk.

With the classically horrible timing of movie villains and unassuming would-be helpers, a veritable fleet of helicopters swoops in towards us. Jazz's optics widen as he shouts, "HEL-lo, looks like we got _company!_"

Optimus bends down and offers Jada and I a hand. "Up you get." We oblige and clamber on, Jada hesitating only a second. We then find ourselves deposited on his shoulder. "Hold on!"We barely have time to take his advice before he takes off at a run.

* * *

Review, svp!


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